


fragile at the touch

by Anonymous



Series: Jimmy/Stan fics [2]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dissociation, Drug Use (Cocaine), Implied/Referenced Sex Work, Issues with Touch/Intimacy, M/M, Mentions of self-loathing, ft. the first time Jimmy calls Stan sunflower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The city is an animal with a particular hankering for sin. It’s easy for Jimmy to figure out what most people want. Sex, money, power, and greed tend to be the name of the game.So when Jimmy meets Stan, he doesn’t understand. At all.





	1. Chapter 1

When Jimmy smokes, the burn in his lungs feels like retribution. For what, he’s not sure, but there’s ash on his tongue, and it’s just enough to get rid of the taste in his mouth. He keeps a bottle of mouthwash in his car, usually, but he ran out yesterday, and he’s pretty sure by now that the guy working at 7/11 knows what he needs it for.

The thought makes him shudder. Shame is a physical sensation, like water down his spine, or maybe that’s just cooling sweat. Whatever it is, it makes him want to tear the clothes off his back and burn them.

It’s summer. This far into Los Santos, there isn’t even the blessing of a cool ocean breeze. But the sun is setting, and the sky is the color of a bruise, and he’s idling in his car on the edge of a very steep hill surrounded by trees, high up in the hills of Vinewood. Here, it is quiet. Far away from the din of traffic, of the commotion of the city, of people talking and yelling and fighting and fucking. It is a peaceful silence only the rich can buy.

Around him, the sound of crickets swell. It reminds him of summers back home, of beers over bonfires, of fireflies flickering above the grass. The air doesn’t smell sweet like it does back there. Now it smells like smoke, and exhaust fumes.

The lit end of his cigarette glows as he takes one last drag, and stubs it out against the side of his car. He unwraps the cigarette butt, pockets the filter, and lets the charred paper flutter to the ground.

He takes a few more breaths, steadying himself around the buzz of nicotine in his head. 

It’s evening. Time to get to work.

—

The city is an animal with a particular hankering for sin. It’s easy for Jimmy to figure out what most people want. Sex, money, power, and greed tend to be the name of the game.

So when Jimmy meets Stan, he doesn’t understand. At all.

Stan’s, well–stupid isn’t quite the right word–but as naive as someone who’s never had to do something that goes against their morals, that’s for sure.

“Hi, I’m uh, Stan, I’m new to town! And I, uh, got a job, and I need a vehicle! I think,” the blonde man with an impressive moustache and ridiculous fanny pack shouts, in a booming voice that makes Jimmy want to flinch on instinct. People who carry that kind of boisterous confidence are either stupid or dangerous, or both.

“You…you _think_?” Jimmy says, the words coming out snarkier than he intended them to. He just doesn’t know how to react to someone like Stan.

Five minutes later, Jimmy’s still waiting for the car dealer, and Stan is walking in circles and doesn’t even have enough cash to buy a damn car. Every single warning bell in Jimmy’s brain is screaming _turn around and walk away, you don’t help out strangers in a place like Los Santos._

Jimmy finishes his cigarette, and peels himself off the wall of the car dealership. He was supposed to make a few cocaine drops tonight, but those can wait. There’ll never be a shortage of people hungry for powder.

“I’ll give you a ride,” Jimmy says. He can’t believe he’s doing this, but it’s too late to back out now.

“Aw, would ya?” Stan says, “you’re so sweet!”

“Yep, follow the stranger into his van,” Jimmy mutters.

“Well, we won’t be strangers once we know each other’s names! I’m Stan, Stan Wheeler,” Stan says cheerfully.

“Jimmy.”

 _Another_ terrible fucking mistake, to use his real first name, but there’s something about Stan that makes every single well-constructed wall Jimmy’s built around himself crumble like sand. Stan’s guileless, and for some reason, it makes Jimmy want to be, too.

He’s forgotten what it’s like, to be a wide-eyed newcomer seeing Los Santos for the first time. A glamorous, breathtaking city, with a nasty underbelly beneath its twinkling streetlights and neon signs.

“Jimmy? Nice to meet you Jimmy! Well, I’ve met nothing but friendly faces around here.”

“Oh really? That’s the first time I’ve ever been called Friendly,” Jimmy muses. Because he’s been called a lot of things–- _prettyboy, bitch, fucker_ –-but. But _friendly_. Something in his chest squeezes at the word. 

“Well, you seem friendly, and you’ve got a friendly persuasion about you, and I like that,” Stan says, like he knows this for a fact.

“Thank you,” Jimmy says, and his voice comes out shakier than he thought it would. He clarifies, a moment later, that the reason he seems so shaky is from all the cocaine.

But it’s not. His shakiness isn’t from cocaine at all.

—

The shower in Jimmy’s apartment never runs hot enough. Half the time, it doesn’t even run warm, and Jimmy’s left shivering underneath freezing water, trying to rinse sweat out of his hair with shitty two dollar shampoo that smells like “Winter Roaring Bear”, whatever the hell that means.

Whether it’s the soap, or something else, Jimmy never really feels quite clean.

—

Stan is, well.

Stan is different.

Jimmy’s jittery around him, but not in a bad way. Not in the way that cocaine makes him feel, like he could stay up all night and take a hit to the face and not feel a thing. More like, the way he feels after he drinks a really nice cup of coffee. Warm, and awake.

The first time they drive around the city, Jimmy expects to end the night with Stan asking him more about his prostitution work. (Stan’s an enigma; Jimmy doesn’t understand how someone can be so brazenly kind and funny and also tactless and dispraxic at the same time.)

But Stan takes it in stride, and doesn’t really ask much else about it, and Jimmy finds himself letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“You’re like, you’re like a sunflower,” Jimmy mutters one day, because Stan _is_ like a sunflower. He drinks a lot of water, and somehow infallibly manages to cheer Jimmy up by simply existing.

And the way Stan grins at him, after he says that, warms him like the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s strange that Stan’s never had sex. Not because it’s a bad thing, but because in a way, Jimmy’s almost envious.

He’s lost count of the number of people he’s let touch him. Sometimes, his body doesn’t feel like it belongs to him anymore. He lies awake, aching in a stranger’s bed at 5am, and just when the sun begins to rise he thinks _I don’t want to do this anymore._

Some part of him recognizes it’s just a job, and it doesn’t mean anything. The other part of him thinks about his Catholic grandmother, God rest her soul, rolling in her grave knowing that one of her grandsons turned out to be a whore.

And to think he used to love being touched, would fold like a house of cards if someone ran their fingers through his hair.

Jimmy puts on his sunglasses to hide his bloodshot eyes and lights up a cigarette. He looks as shitty as he feels.

He hopes Stan won’t notice.

—

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy jolts awake. He hadn’t been asleep–-not really-–just dozing. A weak, watery sun is pushing past the pale clouds; it’s dawn.To their left is the ocean–-their right, the mountains.

Jimmy winces at the crick in his neck. He’d fallen asleep with his head against the window on the passenger side of Stan’s water delivery van.

Right, they were in the middle of one of Stan’s deliveries.

“You okay?” Stan asks, from the driver’s side. There’s soft banjo music playing on the radio, and for some reason, it makes Jimmy smile. Probably because it’s the most ridiculous and endearing thing ever. And also, how the hell did Stan finally manage to find a banjo station on the radio in a city like Los Santos??

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, groggy. “Sorry, I uh. Guess I kinda fell asleep there,” he says.

“No, no, don’t be sorry. Sometimes I fall asleep too, ha ha. Hasn’t happened to me while driving yet though, fingers crossed. Must be that fresh H2O giving me electrolytes and energy, you know what I mean?” Stan says, followed by one of his strange chuckles.

Stan’s talking nonsense, but Jimmy nods anyway. “Uh, sure Stan,” he says, “you sure that’s not your bladder keeping you awake because it constantly needs to be relieved?”

“Well, uh, um, well, I uh…” Stan stutters.

“Only messin’ with you, please don’t piss yourself,” Jimmy yawns through a chuckle, and settles deeper into the seat. He can’t remember the last time he felt comfortable enough to fall asleep in front of someone. Definitely not in front of any of his clients. And the last person he actually cared for, more than as just a casual fuck, didn’t like sleeping together after the act.

“Oh, well that reminds me!” Stan reaches into his fanny pack, car swerving as he pulls out a bottle of water. Jimmy’s feet slide off the dashboard, and he has to grip onto roof handle above the door to steady himself.

“Here,” Stan says, their fingers brushing as he hands the bottle to Jimmy, “you look a little parched.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes but takes the bottle anyway, twisting the cap off with a pop before taking a gulp. It _is_ pretty refreshing, and somehow still cold, despite the fact that it’s been in Stan’s fanny pack all day.

“What do you mean I look dehydrated?” Jimmy says, though now that he’s had a few sips, he really does feel better. What was the last thing he drank? What was the last thing he _ate_?

“Well, uh, um. You know, your nips, they get chapped,” Stan mumbles, “and uh, um. You, uh.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow at him. “My nips??”

“NO, GOD, UHHH, I meant your LIPS! Lips, as in, the things on your face!”

“Don’t sweat it, Stan,” Jimmy says quickly, laughing, because Stan looks about two seconds away from having an aneurysm, and Jimmy really doesn’t want him to swerve into oncoming traffic.

But he files that information away for later. That sometimes, Stan stares at his lips.

That sometimes, Stan notices. That maybe, Stan cares.

_Shut up, idiot, he offers water to everyone he meets._

Jimmy tries and fails to convince himself that it doesn’t mean anything that Stan notices.

—

In the past, Jimmy would have never characterized himself as a touchy person.

Which is why it’s nearly more of a surprise to himself than it is to Stan the first time Stan reaches out to touch him on the shoulder, and Jimmy doesn’t flinch.

He leans into it. Like he wants _more_.

But then, his body catches up, like it still isn’t on the same wavelength as his mind’s instinctual trust of Stan, and instead of nudging Stan’s hand off his shoulder he accidentally overcorrects and ends up taking a step backwards.

“Whoa, whoa, Jimmy, are you okay??” Stan asks, withdrawing his hand immediately. 

“Sorry, I uh…well, what happened to calling me ‘Friendly’?” Jimmy says, trying to cover up the awkwardness. _What the fuck is wrong with you._

“Oh, uhm, sorry. Uh, Friendly, Friendly J,” Stan says. “I uh, I didn’t mean to slam my hand down on your shoulder like that. I don’t know my own strength sometimes, ha ha. Um…”

“No, no, it was fine, you were fine. Sorry, sometimes I’m just used to…” Jimmy clears his throat, not bothering to finish the sentence. “No, you were fine. I just, spazzed, sometimes it happens,” Jimmy finishes lamely.

Because.

Because he _wants_. He wants to be okay with not freaking out every time someone gets a little too much in his personal space. He wants to be okay with casual touches on the shoulder. He wants to be okay with Stan reaching out to him.

“You sure?” Stan says. For once, he actually sounds a little serious, like maybe he understands more than he’s letting on about why Jimmy doesn’t like to be touched without notice. It’s strange, but for the moment, Jimmy’s grateful for it.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Jimmy says, as firmly as he can manage, and hopes that Stan takes it for what it is.

An invitation, to try again.

—-

Stan does.

Not often. But sometimes, if he’s passing Jimmy a water, or if they’re robbing a house together and need to hide in cramped spaces on top of each other, or notably one time when they’re asked to hold hands outside a bank robbery, Stan will be in Jimmy’s space, touching him.

And each time, it gets a little easier. Jimmy’s body starts to treat it less like a threat, and more like safety. Not as in protection, because Jimmy knows full well that Stan is a single lost brain cell away from being killed at all possible times. But more like, the safety of having someone close, who he knows isn’t going to hurt him. Of having a friend.

One night after Stan leaves, Jimmy finds himself feeling cold, missing Stan’s warm presence next to him. 

—

A few weeks later, they’re at a stakeout, about to rob some rich guy’s mansion.

Jimmy and Stan are leaning against the wall to his garden, waiting for their lookout to give them some kind of signal that the mogul has left. A three-man smash and grab job. Easy money.

Except, the mogul’s got a “friend” over, and it’s taking him forever to leave.

An hour passes. Two. And at the three hour mark, Jimmy’s almost ready to call it a night when he feels something press against his shoulder.

It’s Stan. As in, Stan’s drifted off to sleep, and he’s got his head on Jimmy’s shoulder, and they’re hiding in the shadows of some rich asshole’s garden wall. And it’s awkward, and letting Stan sleep while they’re on a stakeout is probably the worst idea Jimmy’s ever had, but he doesn’t want to move. It should feel claustrophobic, but instead, the heavy weight of Stan’s head on his shoulder is comforting. _I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere._

Thirty minutes later, the mogul pulls out of his driveway with a squeal of tires that makes Stan jolt awake, and groggily shout “what did I miss??”

Jimmy rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he hisses, but he feels light and golden. He turns his head to Stan can’t see him smile.

—

Jimmy puts in the effort.

It takes him everything not to shy away from the thought of touching someone, but it’s worth it, because whenever he reaches out to touch Stan, Stan beams back at him, encouraging, and touches back.

Each time he does, it feels like a little reward, in and of itself. That Jimmy doesn’t have to be who he was, that there’s still room for him to become who he wants.

—

They’re standing underneath a yellow-tungsten street lamp, and it’s late in the evening. They’ve been together all day, but it’s dark out now, and Stan needs to leave. He’s talking about grateful he is that someone’s been there to show him around the city, speaking in that booming tone of voice that Jimmy’s come to associate with affection.

Some nameless feeling in Jimmy opens, like a flower blooming under the sun.

His heart’s pounding out a rag beat in his chest, but before he can think twice, he hears himself say “come here, bud,” and pulls Stan into a hug.

Stan’s nearly as caught off guard as Jimmy is at himself, but reacts a moment later, wrapping his arms around Jimmy. It’s _warm_.

Stan’s arms are a strong weight around him, his chest large and solid, and Jimmy, for once, isn’t scared.

“Say…say hi to Roy for me,” Jimmy says, quietly, when he pulls away, already missing the feeling of being wrapped up in Stan’s hug.

“I will…and uh, I’ll, I’ll catch you on the flippity flip,” Stan says, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile. 

Jimmy smiles back.

“Catch you on the flippity flip,” Jimmy echoes. And as Stan jogs away, whistling a tuneless song to himself, Jimmy reaches up a hand to press his fingers against the hollow of his neck and shoulder, where Stan had touched the tip of his nose a few moments ago.

When Stan had held Jimmy in his arms like he was something worth holding on to.

Jimmy thinks about this as he gets into his car and drives. All the way up to his favorite spot, high up in the hills of Los Santos, looking out over the entire city.

He watches the stars fade and the sky lighten to a hazy periwinkle, the early rays of dawn warming his skin.

And he thinks of Stan, and smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on my [tumblr](https://haepherion.tumblr.com/post/184514627321/fragile-at-the-touch-part-1). 
> 
> This was my first fic for the pairing, so I've got a real soft spot for this particular fic. It seems poetic, that the hug at the end of this fic, the first fic I ever wrote for them, is also perhaps the last interaction we'll ever see for them.


End file.
